


Strapped

by azarias



Series: Shameboners of James McGraw [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Caning, Class Issues, Corporal Punishment, Crying, M/M, Non-Consensual, Not Underage, Shame, and other traditions of the Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:30:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azarias/pseuds/azarias
Summary: Midshipman McGraw's temper gets him into trouble. His captain attempts to teach him restraint.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the FFA nonnies from _that_ thread. 
> 
> Very special thanks to [ Csoru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/csoru/pseuds/csoru) for beta-reading my galloping id and tightening up my story.
> 
> A note on historical accuracy:
> 
> The title of 'midshipman' in this era (early 1690s) is dubious at best. That lovely blue and white uniform we see Lieutenant McGraw wearing in the flashbacks, which I have reproduced in an earlier form here, is a complete anachronism; uniforms for officers were not adopted by the Royal Navy until half a century later. Where history conflicts with my ability to kink on uniforms and power imbalances, history can take a hike.
> 
> There was an English warship named _Exeter_ in service at the time. I have no idea who captained her.

David McBride was taller than James, broader and heavier by forty pounds, and could have pinned him to the deck and held him there. That was why James went for his throat first, a quick jab to his adam's apple stealing his breath and making him gag. A knee to the gut put him off-balance and a hard shove knocked the man backwards over the windlass.

James vaulted the obstacle, came down beside McBride, and McBride grabbed his legs to trip him. Instead James simply folded. He went to his knees on McBride's chest. It put him in handy reach of his goal, which was to wipe that sneer off the man's face. His knuckles split against McBride's cheek; McBride's fists drove like cannon balls into James's torso but he didn't _care_ , there was blood in his mouth and by _God_ the man would _eat his fucking words_.

Half a dozen hands grabbed him, an arm went around his throat, a man dove on each of McBride's arms, and from the quarterdeck of the seventy-gun _Exeter_ there was a roaring like a lion: " _You will cease this nonsense._ Pull those men apart!"

James panted, blood boiling, and when he saw McBride regain his feet he strained against the men who held him. McBride looked ready to do murder himself, and every instinct for survival James had told him not to let a man walk away looking like that, not without teaching him who was the stronger. But they wouldn't fucking let him _go_ —

And reality interceded, in the form of Captain Stanhope storming in between them. Not a lion, no. The captain was the freezing bite of a northern gale, ready to capsize a ship and sweep away a midshipman who'd been brawling with a gunner's mate.

James swallowed, aware of the blood running from his split lip, the disarray of his hair, the mess he'd made of his clean shirt. His heart pounded — rage still, but fear crept in. The captain stood, looking at him, wig and jacket flawlessly neat and the look of a man who'd smelled something foul on his face.

When James had tried and failed to find something to say, tried again, choked on a bloody swallow and failed again, the captain turned away. 

"Take that man below and put him in irons," the captain ordered the men holding McBride. He waited, watching until McBride was taken unprotesting belowdecks. Then he turned back to James.

His voice was absolutely calm, clear, and pitched to carry. "Midshipman McGraw. Clean yourself up. You are to stand your watch and then present yourself in my cabin for disciplinary action. Is this understood?"

Cautiously, the men holding James eased their hold. He straightened and numbly tried to pull his shirt into some version of order. "Sir." He swallowed blood again. "Aye, sir."

The captain looked at him a moment more, then left the deck. The crew's eyes lingered on James longer, until Lieutenant Apston came through and chivvied everyone back to work.

*

  
Eight bells ended the forenoon watch, and James took himself to the great cabin. The marine on duty announced James and ushered him in, but Captain Stanhope did not look up from his work.

The captain sat at his desk, writing. It was not the ship's log, James saw, but rather Stanhope's personal diary, which the captain took great care to maintain and present to his wife at voyage's end. During the interminable watch, James had refined a dozen ways to explain, two dozen ways to apologize. Standing at attention before the captain's desk, his hat tucked in the crook of his arm, he knew better than to venture any of them yet.

Creaking timbers and slapping waves were ever-present noises at sea, and the footsteps of the crew on the deck above had the rhythm of well-worn ritual. But the wet scritch of quill-pen across paper seemed to drown out all those comfortable noises as the captain wrote out thoughts he wanted to share with the woman who waited for him at home. James's eyes traced the script, trying to read upside down, but he caught himself in time and stopped. Best not to add a charge of sneaking to his mistakes today.

Instead, he looked at his captain. Stanhope was a pale man, despite a life at sea that had weathered him like all their sort. He had watery blue eyes set deep in his round face, and James knew that beneath his powdered wig his thick, fair hair was going grey. He shaved meticulously clean and demanded all his officers do the same. No stranger to a fine table, the captain was broad and barrel-shaped, with a stomach that protruded over his belt. But James had seen him grab Lieutenant Bellwaith by the collar and lift him to his feet with one hand when a storm wave had knocked him over, as easily as a man would scruff a puppy.

After some minutes, the captain's pen stilled and he sat looking at the page, nodding silently to himself before he blotted the paper and returned the closed book to its shelf. He put away his pen and ink, too, safely in a drawer, and left his writing desk clean and empty. Then he leaned against it, crossed his arms, and for the first time acknowledged James.

James stood straighter.

"Why did you attack Mr. McBride?" 

"I — I gave him an order, sir." To stow a coil of rope, had it been? Or something else. The moments just before were washed out, a bright glare in his memories like sun on still water. He remembered what McBride had said, and what he had _done_ , but the exact events just before that were blurred. 

The captain tilted his head. "And he refused?" His voice was mild, almost soft, as if ascertaining the facts were his only concern.

James fingered the stitching in his hat. Licked his lips. Shook his head. "No, sir. But he. Muttered, when I had turned away."

 _No better than me_ , McBride had said. McBride, with his Irish name and his fisherman's brogue, whose father had been a sailor, too.

Keen-eared James had snatched the words from the air and gone to shove them back down McBride's fucking _throat_.

"So you hit him," the captain said.

James looked at the desk just past the captain's hip. Behind his back, his free hand clenched and unclenched, thumb running over each finger one by one.

One of his apologies: "Captain, I wish to apologize. I disrupted activity on deck and made a spectacle. It won't happen again."

That didn't sound like enough. His throat ran dry. He shut his mouth and flicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth, hoping for sudden inspiration.

Stanhope tapped his fingers, thinking. "You are eighteen, correct, Midshipman?"

"Yes, sir."

The captain nodded. He shifted a little, making himself comfortable against the desk. "You'll be examined for lieutenant later this year, then. I imagine you'll do well at it. You're a natural seaman."

James blinked. He hadn't expected _praise_ , coming here. "I … thank you, sir."

"What you are _not_ , however, is a natural _officer_." James swallowed, the taste of blood gone from his mouth, replaced now with bile. Stanhope made a sharp noise with his tongue. "Don't look at me like that, son. If I want to kick a dog, I'll find a dog. This is _exactly_ what I mean. I can see every emotion writing itself across your face as you feel it. You think the men cannot?"

That wasn't the sort of question midshipmen were meant to answer. James stood straighter and tried to make his face match.

"Discipline is what keeps this ship afloat, Midshipman. Not water, not seamanship, not bravery, not the will of God Almighty. Discipline. Without that, we are at the bottom." Stanhope thudded a fist against his meaty thigh, emphasizing the word.

"If a sailor under your command is insubordinate, or denies you due respect, or makes himself too popular among the men to your own detriment, you may have him beaten. _Have_ him beaten, by the bo'sun and his fellows, not beat him _yourself_. If you do it right, he will respect you; at the worst, he will fear you. But if you strike at him like one of his own kind in a tavern, how do you think he will see you?"

James stayed silent, hoping this question, too, was rhetorical.

It wasn't. Stanhope was content to let the silence stretch and the nausea in James build, possibly forever. To end it, James answered, "Like one of his own kind, sir."

Proving McBride's point.

"Precisely." Stanhope put his hands on the desk and leaned his weight back on their heels. He drummed his fingers, looking James up and down.

Finally, he asked, "Captain Hennessey pays your allowance, does he not?"

"Yes, sir." 

Once he made lieutenant, he would be paid — not handsomely, but enough to support himself, with his simple needs. Midshipmen were students, however, and in the Royal Navy's debt. James had no family to pay his way, and they wouldn't have had the means even if any of them had still been alive. Childless Hennessey had taken a liking to James for reasons he had never explained. He was James's benefactor, and when Stanhope invoked his name, James remembered Hennessey was also the man James's every failure would shame. 

"Hennessey is a good friend of mine," Captain Stanhope said, reminiscing over facts James vaguely knew. "We were midshipmen together. Saw action against the Spanish under Captain Hayworth - Admiral Hayworth, that is, he died last summer. Hennessey gave me his own ration of drink after I killed my first man; I was younger than you are now." 

James had killed his first man two years ago. Perhaps longer, if one counted his work with the gun crew entitling him to a share of their kills.

Stanhope rapped his knuckles against the desk, nodding to himself like he'd come to some decision. "I think the least I owe my friend is to see his particular interest carried out, and you turned into a fitting officer. That means making you aware of the consequences of your unrestrained feelings."

He stood up, stepping into James's space. The captain was shorter than James by a finger-width or two, but he was massive, commanding attention like a ship of the line made flesh. Above that, he was the captain, and aboard ship only God Himself could gainsay the captain's word. With very great effort, James met his eyes.

"That man you were brawling with will have five strokes of the cat tomorrow after prayers, for impertinence," Stanhope said. His eyes were half-lidded, almost sleepy. "But I believe he struck you; the evidence is plain on your face. Striking an officer and gentleman is a serious offense, and perhaps I am too soft."

Dread and nausea swelled in James's stomach. He was like a landsman pressed to sea for the first time, ready to run for the rails. 

Stanhope continued, relentless, his voice terribly soft. "Shall I hang him, instead? Does he deserve to die for your pride, Mr. McGraw?"

"No, sir!" James blurted. 

To die — perhaps, in that moment, James had _wanted_ to kill McBride. Or to silence him, anyway, by whatever means was fastest. James had killed but he was no murderer: a moment's passion, no matter how red it ran, would surely not have led him to that. And McBride was a bastard and an Irishman, and an insubordinate sot to boot, but to dance on a rope like some pirate was nothing he had earned.

In the face of James's passion, Stanhope was calm. He nodded, and James for the life of him couldn't tell if it was approval or mere agreement.

"Then his punishment stands," the captain said. "Five strokes, and he will mind his tongue. Now we come to you."

 _This_ was what James had expected, those hours he stood on watch. Whatever the captain would choose, James was resolved to accept without complaint. He knew he would not be flogged beside McBride, not unless he was first turned before the mast ... and surely, surely he hadn't earned that? James had felt confident his punishment would be none too severe, that his status as midshipman was secure. But then the captain had spoken of hanging McBride —

As if they were having a conversation, Stanhope continued mildly, "As you are a gentleman and responsible for him, I think it only fair you suffer somewhat more than the man beneath you. Do you agree, Midshipman?"

Unable to say anything in his defense, James simply nodded.

Stanhope clapped his hands, making James jump. "Twenty of the best, I think, for brawling. Another ten, for the sin of pride. And a further ten, for the sin of wrath. Yes, that should serve as a reminder for some days to come. Shoes and breeches off, if you please, and bend over the desk." He moved off to a cupboard, leaving James standing there, dizzy with relief.

Stanhope meant to cane him? That was _it_? Forty strokes was more than boys usually warranted, but James was hardly a boy anymore, and simple pain held no terror for him. It would hurt, he would heal, and then it would be done. 

Too much to call it eagerness, what animated James to follow Stanhope's order, but certainly there was no reluctance. The faster he complied, the faster it would be over with, and he had his boots, hat, and breeches stowed neatly beneath the desk by the time Stanhope turned to him again.

James stood there in only his long shirt and his short hair, completely bare from the thighs down, and for the first time he perceived that the cabin air was cold. It was summer but the air and water were never warm in this northern sea. Barefoot, he was intensely aware of the smooth wood grain beneath his feet.

Stanhope looked at him, cane held loosely in his hand. It was black wood, long and thin, glistening with oil. Despite himself, James's eyes were drawn to it. In Stanhope's thick hands it looked almost delicate, hardly an instrument of pain at all. He'd seen younger boys cry at the mere sight of the cane, and at the time, he had despised them. Now he wondered, though, if that was not the point; if perhaps the dread of it was what kept discipline among the boys, more than its application.

A curl of unease awoke in his belly. Stanhope was no fool. He stood there quietly, holding the cane while James looked at it, and he had to know James didn't fear its bite. True, James had never had more than a dozen strokes at once, and those usually across his breeches, but he'd been caught by the loose ends of lines and once cut by a saber, and those pains were just as bad as anything the cane might bring. 

Stanhope tapped the cane against his palm, meditatively. It made a soft _thwack_ with each tap. "Lift your shirt up, Midshipman McGraw, then lay yourself across the desk. Legs spread."

The cold air stroked his ass as he bared it, and he laid himself across the desk.

There was no comfortable way to lay. The desk was too short to simply drape himself across. Either he slouched down with his legs bent awkwardly, or he bent past his waist with his buttocks in the air, like — like a dog, or a whore at one of the cheapest taverns the men went to, where the women were such loathsome creatures you could have one on the table for the price of a cup of ale. James had never been to such a place and was resolved never to go, but he'd heard such pictures painted by rapturous men who spoke of those places like pilgrims spoke of shrines. He wished he could close his legs.

James crouched, his head resting on the desk. Its hard edges dug into his thighs. Of necessity his cock hung free, its head buried in a fold of his shirt. He twitched, trying for some position that would afford him modesty, but found none. 

Wishing to show himself obedient, he wrapped his hands hands around the edges of the desk on either side, his arms splayed. But he could not seem to hold his hands still. Ships and fantastic fish chased each other through tall waves, carved deep into the wood at the rim, and his fingers traced the furrows, tried to find a course.

All the sounds of the ship seemed so _loud_ , so clear. Not just the water and the wind snapping the sails, but the activities of the men on deck. Shouted orders, thumping footsteps, heavy objects being dragged. If James could hear out — could they hear in?

Outside the door was the marine who showed him in, and the door was not thick. That man could hear.

When the captain had ordered him to finish his watch before reporting for discipline, the crew had been present, and they had seem him obey when the lieutenants marked it noon. They knew why he was here.

 _I can see every emotion writing itself across your face_. The men could, too. Pride and wrath, so be it; James could own his sins, and those were not his worst. But what McBride had said — the men had seen _that_ across James's face, too. Seen the confirmation of what they surely muttered to themselves where James couldn't hear. That he was no better than them, and undeserving of where he stood above them.

 _You are not a natural officer_ —

The cane cracked across his buttocks and lightning cracked across his vision, sudden pain. He jumped, unprepared. Yelped, loudly enough that the the door wouldn't stop the sound. A second crack and he bit his lip, swallowing back noise.

No third stroke fell.

Stanhope stepped in front of him. "That was for failure to pay attention." He bent down, looking at James's face, looking at his hands where they were busy at the desk. "Do you wish to have your hands tied down, Midshipman? Or can I trust you to control yourself?"

There was rope in the room, and Stanhope was an able seaman. He could have James immobilized in a trice, held through whatever thrashing Stanhope meant to deliver. 

If James was coward enough to need to be held down.

"No, sir!" James said desperately. He started to push himself up to look the captain in the eye, then caught himself and laid back down again, holding more firmly to the desk. With his cheek against the woodgrain, he said, "I do not need you to tie my hands, sir."

Stanhope stood and stepped behind James again. "Good lad. Buttocks held up, if you please. I have no wish to stoop."

Silent, James obeyed, presenting himself for the captain's convenience. He scrunched his eyes and tried not to think, _whore_. 

"You will keep the count," Stanhope ordered. "Forty, and I expect to see contrition."

"Aye, sir," James said, and he was ready this time when Stanhope struck him.

What he wasn't prepared for was how _much_ it hurt. Like a marksman, Stanhope laid the stroke directly across the welt he had raised before, and the feeling was like teeth sinking into his ass, some great shark come upon him. James was so shocked by the pain he could not cry out, his throat confused into paralysis. Lightning quick, Stanhope struck again, what felt like all his great strength behind the blow. Surely it couldn't be; the cane would _break _.__

__James's hands convulsed, holding the carved edges of the desk so hard his palms became two new points of pain, but Stanhope paused. The cane touched him, softly, and simply rested just between the two bright, aching lines it had etched into him._ _

__"How many is that, Midshipman?" Stanhope asked, voice just as soft._ _

__James blinked, took a breath. "Two, sir." His voice was hoarse but it was steady. Damn him, he would be steady. This was nothing. This was pain and it would be gone soon._ _

__Stanhope tapped him with the cane, no harder than he had tapped his own hand. The sound was the same, _thwack_ , and James jumped at hearing it, though it didn't hurt at all._ _

__"Correct, Midshipman," Stanhope said, and started a steady tap like the ticking of a clock, always missing the places that hurt most. With each touch of the cane, James felt his skin grow warmer, knew the damnable flush that must be spreading across his ass cheeks._ _

__"I don't expect to have to prompt you again, Mr. McGraw. When I order you to keep count, I expect to be obeyed."_ _

__That was a cue, and James bit his lip. Stanhope hit him, right over the flesh he had warmed, and James bit so hard he tasted blood. Letting go, he counted, "Three."_ _

__Pleased, Stanhope tapped again, right where James's weight would rest when he sat, and quickly established a rhythm. _Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap,_ and _crack_ , always warning James where the blow would land but giving him no choice but to accept it. _ _

__By "Seven, _eight_ ," James could scarcely concentrate on more than breathe and count, breathe and count. His chest felt tight, like he had exerted himself racing up and down the ratlines, and he didn't know _why_._ _

__He could no longer feel the individual welts. His ass was one great blaze of pain, each new stripe simply stoking the fire._ _

__It was like the physical complement to the red haze that had come over his vision when McBride insulted him, and it was utterly, utterly out of his control. Stanhope chose where and when to hit him, and even if James had been coward enough to ask for mercy, the captain was in no mood to grant it._ _

__At the tenth stroke Stanhope paused, and in that pause it all became much worse. With no new blows landing, he had time to feel more. Pain, yes, and the hard, unforgiving grain of the wood beneath his cheek. The chill, damp air sharp now over his heated skin._ _

__And God help him, he felt blood filling his prick, making it heavy where it hung between his body and the desk._ _

___No, **no** ,_ he thought desperately, as if that organ had ever obeyed him before. _ _

__Stanhope's boot nudged his feet farther apart, left then right, and James gasped. Not from pain, but from the terror his legs would slip so far apart that captain would _know_. He flexed his toes, trying to secure his purchase, and nearly missed the whistle of the cane cutting through the air. It hit his left thigh, well below his ass, and his leg buckled, threw all his weight on the desk. _ _

__Choking back a sob, he counted, "Eleven," and regained his foothold. The solid weight of his prick was hot and undeniable, head pressing harder against the desk as it grew, and when he shifted his balance it rubbed against his shirt enticingly. From being beaten? From having a man stand behind him, demanding that he spread his legs? Oh God, if the captain _looked_..._ _

__"No," said Stanhope in correction. Like he was giving a mathematics lesson, he explained, "You have two buttocks, and a full stroke covered both. You have two legs, and a full stroke will cover both. That was one half."_ _

__After a moment, he added kindly, "You need not mark the halves."_ _

__The cane whistled again and hit his right thigh, exactly in line with the left. James's leg trembled but did not give out. Stanhope said for him him, "Eleven."_ _

__Twelve and thirteen followed just the same, left and right, and as his voice broke on the count James realized his bravado had made him a fool. Stanhope knew exactly what he was doing, knew that James had not feared the cane and expected its hurts to be fleeting. And he was determined to exact monstrous pain with it, and humiliation, too — and Jesus, God, he was _good_ at it. _ _

__Tears stung James's eyes, as relentless as Stanhope's blows, and James could no more stop them than he could stay Stanhope's hand._ _

__Didn't _want_ to stay Stanhope's hand, because as bad as the strikes were, the pauses were hollows horror-filled. Stanhope swung the cane like he had all the time in the world, unhurried. As if the captain of a third-rate ship had nothing better to do than chastise a midshipman. _ _

__After the fifteenth two-part blow Stanhope rested, letting the cane wander up and down James's legs, not tapping again, just stroking, a snake looking for the softest part of its prey to bite. The muscles in James's legs trembled as if they would collapse, suddenly weak. Worse, so much worse, were the shivers that followed the movement of the cane, his body wracked by a far more sickening weakness. Those shivers seemed to run through his veins, up and up from his legs to spill straight into his cock, barely hidden against the desk. If Stanhope moved the cane up higher it could lick against his balls and he would be undone, it would be too much._ _

__God, how he hated himself for wanting that touch._ _

__The cane jerked suddenly, left and right, a quick flick of Stanhope's wrist that slapped it against the inside of his thighs. It stung but was so mild compared to the previous blows that James hesitated, unsure if he should count it. Then Stanhope did it again, and prompted him, "How many, boy?"_ _

__"Six —" James coughed, as if he could somehow hide the tears in his voice, but knew it was hopeless. "Sixteen, sir?"_ _

__Stanhope said nothing, but made an approving grunt. When the next blow landed solidly on his left buttock, perpendicular to the earlier stripes and seeming to cross all of them, he screamed and could not find the pride to stop himself. Quickly, Stanhope did it again, this time to the left, and paused meaningfully._ _

__Testing James's obedience._ _

__"Seventeen," James said between gritted teeth. It _hurt_ , so much more than he'd been ready for, it hurt and it was two blows, but Stanhope had told him to count each buttock as only half, just like his thighs. Unfair, so unfair, and his cock demanded attention, even just the attention of the cane._ _

__"Good boy," Stanhope murmured._ _

__Approval brought him no respite. Again the cane came down, perpendicular to the stripes, and every welt that had been raised cried out its own pain. Each blow quaked through his body and some hideous organ inside him twisted it to a nauseating kind of pleasure._ _

__He dared not turn to look, but it felt as if Stanhope swung from the shoulder, putting as much force as he could into each blow. Again, and again, and again, pausing only long enough for James to count each pair, until he reached twenty._ _

__Stanhope stopped again, stood silent. James could hear him breathing heavily, as if the beating had been some great exertion for him._ _

__"There, now your sentence for brawling is done," Stanhope said gently. "We shall next address your sins, and this shall be behind us."_ _

__James sucked in air, forehead pressed to the desk, waiting for the blow. What came instead was horrible._ _

__Stanhope's broad hands rested on his ass, tender._ _

__The captain was a gentleman from the cradle, but he was a sailor, too. He had not the fine, soft hands of a lord or a clerk. Instead they were rough, terribly strong, capable of hauling a man out of danger or lashing a sail to the mast in rough seas._ _

__They were very much like the hands of a man James had met last time he was in port._ _

__That night, he had taken off his fine white breeches and blue jacket and put on the accent of a miserable village in Cornwall instead. So garbed, he'd gone down to the taverns by the docks. He'd held his courage in both hands, gulped at cheap whiskey and sour beer, and when a man had pulled James onto his lap James had _let_ him. _ _

__The man had called James _pretty_._ _

__What they had done — what he had let that nameless sea-hand do to him — how badly he wanted to meet a man like that _again_ — _ _

__Stanhope's rough hands moved purposefully over James's ass, methodical like checking a rope for weakness. His thumb stroked harshly over a welt and James hissed between his teeth._ _

__The vile thing inside him purred like a petted cat. He wanted to arch into Stanhope's touch. Those rough, capable hands offered him — not comfort, no, but something grounding, steady. He _knew_ they had brought him pain, but here in this cabin, they and the desk and the cane seemed to be all that was real. They found all his weaknesses. They uncovered more. _ _

__"S-sir. Captain …"_ _

__Stanhope's blunt fingers found the most tender spots and pressed in on them, and another maelstrom of sensation nearly blinded James. He may have cried out; he didn't know. It wasn't shameful if he didn't _know_ , if his body did it while he was absent, transported by the pain his captain inflicted. If Stanhope's hands would only spread apart, would pull the cheeks of his ass apart and expose him —_ _

__James choked, horrified, not able to retreat far enough from his body to feel clean. No, Stanhope would never do _that_ , James wouldn't want it, hadn't wanted it, he had been drunk and stupid that night in the tavern and had let the man talk him into something vile._ _

__Face-down across a bed, in the dark. Feeling like he would tear apart. Burning with need for more. _Whore_._ _

__James groaned, the way he had groaned beneath the sailor. That man had asked him to be loud._ _

__Stanhope drew in a deep breath, and his hands stilled. They rested on James's ass still. "Hm, no," Stanhope said, the voice of a professional assessing a purchase. Hennessey had taken much that same tone, the last time James had gone with him to see a new-built ship in the yards._ _

__"No. Your skin is very fair. It won't do to leave scars, could prejudice future crews against you. Wouldn't be right." With that he walked away, and James bit his tongue not to whimper at the loss._ _

__Rustling, a chest being opened and shut, and Stanhope's newest instrument came into view: a broad, leather belt. In the poor light of the cabin it was as dark as the cane and twice as heavy._ _

__James could feel the captain's eyes on him. He almost thought Stanhope would touch him again, and that would be cruelty past bearing, he would be undone._ _

__Instead, Stanhope addressed him. "We will try this. Not the usual prescription. It will hurt you just as badly, I think, but not leave you marked. Do you accept the change, Mr. McGraw?"_ _

__Squeezing his eyes shut, James nodded. There was silence._ _

__Then, "I am speaking to you, Mr. McGraw. Kindly do me the same courtesy."_ _

__James would be a party to his own humiliation._ _

__"Y-yes, Captain," he whispered. He tried to put more strength into his voice but couldn't seem to. "I accept the belt, in place of the cane."_ _

__Stanhope sucked in a breath, sharp, as if _he_ felt some sudden pain. "James McGraw …" _ _

__His voice held that quiet, encouraging sound. As if this were just another lesson. As if James were just one of the ship's boys, waiting for instruction._ _

__Quietly, Stanhope said, "As this shall be the instrument of your improvement, I think you should show it due gratitude. Do you not agree, Mr. McGraw?"_ _

__He held the belt out. Drawn by a lodestone, James bent his head towards it until the thick leather draped across his cheek. He looked up and, impertinent, damn him and his inability to know his place — he met Stanhope's eyes. Stanhope's face was flush, still affected by his exertions. Stanhope nodded, and James saw his adam's apple bob._ _

__James kissed the belt, then lay himself back down, cheek resting on the desk._ _

__Stanhope stepped behind him, but the belt was slower to move. It lay against his cheek. Slowly, it caressed his face, traveled back across his shoulders, down the midline of his back. Languid, dragging: he felt the full weight of it. Had time to understand its girth. What it could do to him._ _

__When it crossed from shirt to skin it felt like a human touch. When it reached his buttocks, inflamed by the cane — even there, it felt only warm, the way Stanhope's hands had been._ _

__It rested there. All the world was the desk, and Stanhope's great presence behind him, and the leather belt across his ass._ _

__"Ten for pride," Stanhope said. "You'll ask for it, when you are ready."_ _

__He stood there, little tremors tracing down the belt. No, those must be coming from James himself, the tiny shivers of his body in the cold air._ _

___No_ , it was worse than that, be honest with yourself, you motherless sailor. It was fear, his own fear of the belt, that set him to shaking. And as the belt connected his body to Stanhope's hands, his captain _knew_. It was only Captain Stanhope's kindness that he said nothing, that this shame, too, was not announced to all the crew, the way the marine outside the door would surely recount each of James's cries._ _

__James's fingers sought purchase among the carvings, trying to find some strong point that would sustain him even if his body faltered. There was nothing — but Stanhope waited — and if James said nothing he _knew_ Stanhope would stay there, watching James cast about for courage, watching James's failure — _ _

__James drew in a shuddering breath and pressed his forehead to the desk, the disembodied words of a prayer chasing through his mind. He stood up on his toes, his ass presented to the air. "Please, sir," James said, "carry out my sentence."_ _

__Stanhope said nothing. The belt spoke for him._ _

__It left James's body, and in the same moment it returned, but with all the weight of Stanhope's anger behind it. It hit James across both buttocks, one solid stroke that he could count, and in a little while he would be grateful for it, but in that moment James _screamed_. His head bowed back, his hips pressed into the desk, and his ass clenched as if there was some strength within him that could stand against the next blow. And as his hips drove down his cock skidded across the desk, dragged heavy and wet across the satin grain, and oh, Jesus, help him, his hips thrust into the desk before he could stop them, humping the captain's furniture like a fucking filthy _whore_._ _

__James bit his lip until it drew fresh blood, not just the split from McBride's fist but crescents dug by his own teeth. Only with that burst of copper could he control himself, remember what he had to lose._ _

__"One," he said, then realized, no, that was wrong. He blinked, vision hazy, trying to remember. "I — tw-twenty …"_ _

__"One will do," Stanhope's bass voice rumbled. "You have only to count to ten, James."_ _

__James nodded. He wanted Stanhope to see that he was good. "Aye, sir. I'm ready." To count? Or —_ _

__Another blow, two, _three_ , and James was driven onto the desk again, his keen of agony smothered in the wood. No, _no_ , he was trying to be brave, to be good, and the captain wanted him to — to count —_ _

__Before he could get the words out — two, three, four — the belt fell across him again, hitting his thighs, agonizing._ _

__Behind him Stanhope roared, a lion again, a hurricane: "Count, Midshipman! Do you think it will go easier for you if you try to lose the count?" The belt cracked across him then, too much, too many times to count. Gusts against an overloaded sail, one beginning before the previous one could end._ _

__How many? He didn't _know_ , and if Stanhope thought he would try to cheat, how much lower would he seem —_ _

__"Two," James sobbed, and as another blow fell, relentless as the storm, he screamed, " _Two, sir_."_ _

__He was blubbing now, no way to hide it. He tucked his face between his arms but his body shook with it, the sound of it racking him so that even the men on deck could hear. The captain could hear, and see, and _know_ how easy it was to bring James to this, a coward without even the wherewithal to sob for mercy. Just sobbing, to no point, abasing himself before the man on this ship whose view of him mattered most. Hurting, fearful, and throughout it all so hard he might die of it, faster than the captain could hang him as a sodomite._ _

__There was a long, long pause, and the heavy sound of Stanhope's breathing over James's sobs. Then the belt flicked out, just barely kissed his ass — a bright, hot flare of pain, like a matchstick pressed to his flesh then gone. "Three," Stanhope counted for him. Then another brief, burning lick of the leather, and, "Four."_ _

__Another, right where the bruising ache was deepest, where James could feel it to his bones. Could feel it to his cock, which welcomed that flicker of pain like a lover's kiss. Stanhope counted, "Five," and James echoed him, uncaring how the tears distorted his voice. Stanhope knew his pain and his weakness, but there was more left to protect, that worst part of him that he could never, ever let Stanhope see._ _

__Could never let _anyone_ see, and he swore then he would never go down to the cheap quarters again, to play the whore and let a man — let a man — to _beg_ for a man —_ _

__His cock demanded attention, twitching beneath him even as his body shook, his skin drawing tight at the sure knowledge of more torture to come._ _

__But it was Stanhope's hand again. Steady, implacable, burning like a brand. James moaned — pain, surely that was a sound of pain, nothing else, and he drew his wrist up so he could bite at it and smother the next sound. In case it wasn't pain._ _

__Stanhope's thumb pressed into the deepest ache. James bit until he feared he would draw blood._ _

__Perhaps that was not so bad a plan, to bite through his wrist, tear through the vein. Bleed out here, a suicide; those were buried at sea just like all the rest, only with no prayer to guide his soul to Heaven. That would hardly matter, would it? Heaven didn't take his kind regardless._ _

__"No more here," Stanhope murmured. It did not sound as if he was addressing James. "Enough for days to come, here. James … James, the next ones will be on your thighs. Even if I miss, each one is a full stroke. Even if it only touches one leg. No halves. Do you understand, James?"_ _

__James nodded. His vision swam, like when he dove into the sea and opened his eyes. "You'll beat me, sir," he said, following the water that flowed around him. "One stroke, I'll count. I want — thank you, sir … Captain … I'll count."_ _

__Stanhope's breath shuddered, and for a moment his calloused palm pressed hard against James, his weight bearing down on him. Cruel, _cruel_ , James's cock rutting into the desk, unable to help himself when Stanhope forced his hips to move._ _

__Then Stanhope stepped back, belt rustling against his own breeches, and the weight that held James down was gone._ _

__"This will be six," Stanhope reminded him, and even as James nodded the next blow hit him._ _

__Just as Stanhope had promised, it was across his thighs, not his buttocks. And though that flesh had been punished less, still he shook with it. His legs convulsed, curling up at the knee, all his weight again upon the desk and his feet lifting off the floor. He whined, a sound of terror and loss, suddenly without even the solid deck of the cabin to tell him where he was._ _

__He took too long, and — "Oh _jesus_ pleasecaptain." The belt licked across the sole of his foot, just the tip, a tongue of fire, and though it hurt he stomped his feet back down, resuming his position._ _

__"Six," he said, remembering how badly he needed to be obedient to orders._ _

__And Stanhope said, "Buttocks up, Mr. McGraw. It's unbecoming to an officer to slouch."_ _

__Seven. _Eight_. Nine. There was a pause, and James knew, knew it was not for mercy —_ _

__The blow crashed into him all at once, and if Stanhope's great fist had caught him in the temple it would be no harder to bear._ _

__" _Ten_ ," he cried, and all the world around him went grey._ _

__Not black. Black would be a mercy._ _

__There was a rushing in his ears, water flooding into a breached hull. Fire — no, that was not the worst, though it burned just in back of him. The worst was the sick, insistent thrum of _need_ , where his prick slithered beneath him, as wicked and misplaced as a serpent in an apple tree._ _

__Grey still, and the almost-deafness was a relief. The water washed out all other sound. Until he heard, rhythmic and inexorable:_ _

__"James. James, speak, boy. James, it was only ten —" Stanhope crouched beside him, his face on level with James's. He seemed — flushed, red-faced, his pale eyes brighter than they should be. Still the haze, then. Still shock._ _

__James licked his lips, blood singing beneath his skin. "Ten, sir," he confirmed. "There's ... one more sin."_ _

__Stanhope blinked. Held his eyes closed too long. Looked at James again. "Wrath," he intoned, like a word from a sermon._ _

__He stood, and as he stood he stepped aside again, so he left James's sight. The grey silk of shock still flowed through James's veins and he felt giddy, waiting. There was one more sin, Stanhope would not leave him yet._ _

__He nodded eagerly, just in case Stanhope was waiting. "Ten," he said again. Ten for each sin, and James had so _many_ sins, so many Stanhope must see in him._ _

__The calloused pads of Stanhope's fingers brushed him, hard edges to a soft touch. Calloused from rope, from sword, from quill pen. From the strap and the cane. How many men had Stanhope killed? How many boys had he beaten, here in his cabin?_ _

__"Please, sir," James mumbled. "Please don't make me wait."_ _

__Cruelest of the tortures was Stanhope's leisurely pace. Had the captain simply beaten him, quick and business-like the way the bo'sun beat the men, it might be done by now. He might even have passed out, woken to a body that was cramped and painful but thoroughly absolved. But Stanhope took his time and James could feel every moment of it. Could anticipate the next stroke. And everything that was wretched in him drank it in, gloried in it, made his prick throb and his thighs tremble with need as much as pain._ _

__If only Stanhope would let it _end_._ _

__Crying still, his sleeve soaked through and snotty, James let out a low, desperate moan when Stanhope's thigh pressed against him. Stanhope's solid weight pressed into the meat of his ass. "What ..."_ _

__But Stanhope's hands were on his back, pushing his shirt up, pushing his hair out of the way. Unthinking, James reached behind his shoulder to grab the hem of the garment and pull it up, holding it over his head. Stanhope's hands rested on his shoulders, the two together more than enough to span James's back at that widest point. Pressing on him, assessing. Stanhope's weight against his thighs. The fine texture of his breeches scraping James's ass like raw wool. All of it, overwhelming._ _

__"Your back," Stanhope said. "For the last ten. It will … You won't be scarred." He paused, then his weight leaving James, and when his hand came down thick and hard on James's right buttock James could only sob. Brightly, "Only fair a new sin should have fresh meat, eh? Count down from ten, Mr. McGraw, and then we will put this sorry business behind us."_ _

__It was different, this time, the first stroke — "Ten!" — bringing something that was not the screaming agony he had grown to know. Across his shoulders the belt laid a dull, heavy kind of pain. All his lower body was on fire, but as the captain beat his back, it felt like a pan of sullen embers being placed to roast him slowly. The contrast was confusing, almost _soothing_ even as bruises blossomed across his shoulder-blades. He could fall asleep like this, he thought, if not for the strain of keeping his ass up high, presented though Stanhope had no further use for it, and the heavy weight of his cock pulling him down, Hell-ward._ _

__Grunting with each blow, he counted, "Two … one …" and was confused when the next one did not fall. It was —_ _

__"Done," said Stanhope. His voice was husky in James's ears, echoing in James's muzzy head._ _

__Stanhope laid the belt out on the table where James could see it. The leather was darker, damp. James's sweat. James stared at it, transfixed._ _

__"Have you absorbed the lesson, Midshipman?"_ _

__The lesson?_ _

__McBride. Brawling. Letting the men see what he was inside._ _

__"Yes …" James said. His breath hitched and he closed his eyes. "Captain. Thank … thank you for correcting me, sir."_ _

__Low and base. What Stanhope had seen._ _

__"Good lad," Stanhope murmured. "But, I think you ought to show your appreciation again. To the belt."_ _

__Nodding, James opened his eyes, so that he could find his way. Moving his body as little as possible, he bent his head and kissed the belt again. It was warm, flesh-like beneath his lips, and almost he was fool enough to linger._ _

__Stanhope sighed and took the belt away. His footsteps were heavy, moving about the room. James was frozen, there on the desk, body still in position to receive another beating._ _

__If he had to stand up and face the captain as he was, his humiliation would be complete. Whatever foul thing was in him would be revealed._ _

__James very nearly began to beg to — be allowed to stay there? To be beaten, harder, until he lost consciousness in truth and could not be blamed for what his body did. Never, never to have to expose himself._ _

__Stanhope's heavy footsteps came back, and a stack of cloth landed on the desk where the belt had been. Hand towels, handkerchiefs, fine cotton and silk. Brusquely, Stanhope said, "Compose yourself, and then you are dismissed. See Dr. Faris for laudanum before you try to sleep, else you'll regret it."_ _

__Blinking, James lay there as Stanhope's heavy presence moved away. The sound of the captain shrugging on his greatcoat, belting it around his waist._ _

__"James. It happens to all of us, lad. Try not to dwell on it."_ _

__The door swung open and Stanhope left the cabin. Someone — the marine — closed it behind him. James was alone._ _

__A bell rang, just once. He had been in the captain's cabin for half an hour._ _

**Author's Note:**

> If beating pretty redheads until they cry over how hard their dicks are is wrong, I will face God and walk backwards into Hell.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gone Too Far](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442896) by Anonymous 




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